Crystal Clear
by Rah Sulky
Summary: When a teen gets trapped in the game, the E-rated world gets turned upside-down. What we all wished we could do. M for language, maybe some suggestive themes.
1. Exposition

Crystal Clear

Crystal Clear

I possess little to nothing of value, and the rights to Pokémon and any of the many other things I mention in this tale are included in that non-ownership. Except for the plot and characters and stuff. That's mine. No plagiarizing. Now that we're done with the grammatically awkward disclaimers, on to the nonsense!

**Chapter One: Exposition.**

It was a lovely morning, the kind that seemed more likely to be found in the beginning of a bubblegum musical than real life. While I waited for the act one opening number to begin, I noticed my surroundings: the sun was shining through the blinds on my window, the clock read at a precise 7: 36 AM, the tinny lullaby was playing at the perfect volume…wait. The hell? Tinny, repetitive music? What the…

I shot up out of bed, a great deal more stressed out than I was ten seconds ago. This was not my room. I don't have a TV in my room, or a SNES, or a computer. And where in the expletive-ing hell was that God awful music coming from? Either I was dreaming (and what a terrible soundtrack my subconscious came up with if I was) or I was victim to a band of kidnappers straight out of Good Housekeeping. I sat on the edge of my- well, someone's- bed. The tinny lullaby played a few more bars, then looped around to the beginning again, and kept playing. Nevermind. These kidnappers were sick bastards.

I looked the room over again. Vaguely familiar, in an every-kid's-room-basically-looks-like-this kind of way. Also, it had stairs. Oh…stairs. People walked down those sometimes, didn't they? Well, if these Good Housekeeping Bastard Kidnapper people were trying to keep me here, they weren't doing a bang-up job of it so far. I quickly stood up, ready to make a track-star run of it to the staircase…then immediately got dizzy and sat down again. Once my eyesight stopped being all "Wheee lookit the yellow spots!", I took stock of my appearance. Straight red hair still in a messy bun, bright turquoise t-shirt, deep blue jeans, plain white sneakers. Still a girl, too. That was comforting. I glanced at the digital clock again. I vaguely remembered setting that time earlier today, and telling some guy the day of the week (Tuesday. Nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday) and my name; he hadn't laughed at it, either.

Most people ask me what kind of mileage I get when I answer to 'Mercedes'. Yes, my name is Mercedes Benz. My parents thought that was terribly funny. My parents are morons. But this dude had seemed positively eager about it, no quizzical stares or car-related puns. What a weird-ass dream. I snapped back to reality. Or, well, whatever this was. Time to go Bruce Willis on whoever put me here. I attacked the stairs again.

"Quaint." Was the first thought that came to mind. Not quite the lair of debauchery and women's magazines I was expecting to find at the bottom of the staircase. None of the men in ski masks making ransom notes out of Cosmo magazines and Elmer's glue I was expecting, either. In fact, there was only one lady, with unsettling quadrilateral eyes. Years of math class impulses made me want to measure her eyes and write out a proof on whether they were congruent shapes or not, but I refrained and attempted to casually stroll out the front door instead. Rhombus Lady cut me off.

"Hi, honey!" She greeted me. I did the whole cliché turn around 'are-you-looking-at-me?' thing. This lady couldn't seriously be referring to-

"Mercedes! I'm glad you're awake. Professor Elm wanted to talk to you earlier, but I told him you were asleep. My little girl, working with the professor!" Her little girl? Pardon? I am definately not anyone's 'little girl', especially not this lady's. And who the fornicating fornication was Professor Elm, and why did he want to see me, and WHY WAS THIS CRAZY-EYED LADY HANDING ME A CELL PHONE AND A MAP AND A BACKPACK OH GOD. I stared incredulously at these gifts, not hearing what this deluded woman was really saying. Then it clicked. She thought I was her kid! What kind of insane Stepford life had I been Shanghaied into? She wasn't my mom, this wasn't my house, and I wasn't standing for all of this benevolent abduction! I tossed the stuff in the backpack ("Jansport, good quality" I thought inanely to myself) and rushed out the door. I was yelling as I left, but for the sake of this transcript I won't smut it up with the outlandish string of profanities I distinctly remember shouting. Excuse me, but I had a rough morning.


	2. Protest

Chapter Two: Protest

**Chapter Two: Protest.**

Actually, it was still a pretty nice morning. Very sunny. Also, pseudo-mom hadn't chased me into town with a kitchen knife and a copy of Woman's Day. That was nice of her. Acting casual, I glanced around to see if anyone was among the many races or religions I had severely insulted at the top of my lungs while escaping the den of Quadrilateral Lady.

Apparently no one was, so I strolled around, looking over the one or two other houses and the large, important looking building to the north. There were a few people outside as well, but the evidently hadn't noticed my profanity-laden entrance into the outdoors. Actually, they didn't seem to notice much of anything. I watched as they walked odd little patterns around the town, never actually doing anything. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. Step, step. Pause. This was freaking unusual. Deciding to move of my own will before I became one of them, I made my way towards the large, attention-seeking complex that overlooked the rest of the town. Before I got to the front doors, I noticed something red standing to the left of the building. ADD all the way, I strolled on over to the color, throwing caution to the wind (that is, if there had been any wind to throw caution to. The air was almost eerily still).

Huh. The red was actually hair. Hair attached to a person, no less. I looked him over. He had the effeminate rock-star look going for him. Long, straight red hair that was too perfectly disheveled to have been done by accident. Not natural red like mine, but an unholy crayola-color dye-job the color of fake movie blood. Moving past his face I noticed his attire.: Tight jeans, well-worn shoes, trendy jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Damn. He was prettier than me. Or he would be, if he'd wipe that scowl off his face. What had the wall to the huge building ever done to him? (I assumed it was the wall that made him unhappy, he was staring at it so intently). Maybe the window in the wall had insulted his haircut. Or his mom. Or his mom's haircut. I resolved to investigate the matter in a very tactful, delicate manner.

"Hey dog, 'sup?" Wow. Even with the gratuitous addition of "dog" he didn't look over. I tapped him on the shoulder. Well, it wasn't the first mistake I made that morning.

He turned to me, scowling even deeper than before. With the full-on look of his face I realized he was in his late teens, around my age. I didn't think it was possible for him to look even more unhappy than he had before, but his eyebrows came down in an almost perfect 'V', and his rectangular eyes looked to be filled with unpleasant thoughts about where I should go when I died. Somewhere with a tropical climate, I presumed. Did I just insult his mom's haircut somehow? Ignoring the sense of impending doom rising in my stomach, I cheerily continued the conversation.

"Watcha looking at?"

Ladies and gentlemen, if looks could kill, even the tiniest fragments of an atom would dwarf the miniscule little pieces his glare would have obliterated me into. Still, I persisted. What did I have to loose? I didn't even know where I was.

"Sorry about your mom's haircut." That threw him off. His glare faltered into a brief look of bewilderment, then flashed back into the full-force leer he wore so expertly. He turned back to staring down the window. I turned to stare with him, then turned to face him, then back to the window again. Well, I certainly didn't hear it insulting anyone. Finally, I tried talking again.

"Well, I'm Mercedes. What's your name?"

Angry kid whipped around to face me, his expression the absolute epitome of furious…until he started crying. Weeping, more like. Uncontrollable sobs broke through his throat like machine-gun fire.

"I-I d-d-don, don't kno-ho-ho-hooow!" he sobbed, falling to his knees in his despondency.

It was a trap. It had to be a trap. It was definitely a trap. Trap trap, trap trap trap, trap. I'd go to comfort him, maybe put my hand on his shoulder, and he'd snap my neck like a toothpick, or maybe beat me over the head with a loose brick, or just stare at me until I imploded. That would teach me to insult his mother's haircut. Definitely a trap. I ran from the pathetic, sniveling pile of glam-rock clothing and into the giant building the confrontational window was a part of.

If I had a slight instance of déjà vu in Polygon Woman's house, I had a severe case of it now. A slight intern-looking guy with John Lennon glasses paced the floor. Rows of bookcases left a small opening to the back, where I could see an older gentleman in a white coat similar to the pacing intern's. The older guy was gust standing there, beaming at me. Professor Elm, I presumed…wait. I knew this geriatric doctor. The eager guy from my dream! And I definitely saw this room before…what was that on the table next to Elm? Three shining, red-and-white balls were neatly lines up next to each other, their round bases somehow keeping balance on that flat surface. Pokéballs. What. The. Fuck.

Slowly I turned towards the front door and oh-so-casually ambled out of the building, as if to say "Oops! Haha, Wrong number!". I saved my panicking for the outdoors, quickly shuffling to the side of the building opposite of the sobbing teen.

"Okay, let's review the facts," I thought. I hadn't played Pokémon since I was, what? Eight, ten years old, maybe? And then only the original Red Version. I might have borrowed Yellow from my neighbor once. I never returned it, did I? I think she moved to Tennessee, actually, and it's not like I was about to mail it- okay Mercedes, focus. I was probably in one of the later versions of the game and not the show. If it was the show I'd be a dude. And I was definitely NOT a dude. I double-checked my boobs. Yup, not a dude. Also, the kid in the show- Ash, yeah, Ash- didn't get to choose his Pokémon. His douchebag rival Gary took them all or something like that, and Ash overslept…Gary was the other Professor's nephew, or grandkid, or bastard child, right? Whatever. I wasn't a man, and it looked like Elm was going to let me pick my Pokémon, a la the gameboy games, not including Yellow Version. That was good, I guess. And "Mom" gave me a cell phone before. Kids get cell phones in these games now? Spoiled kids these days and their new-fangled game systems…whatever.

I further deduced that red-haired crying kid was probably my rival, because you get to name your rival, and due to the mini existential crisis I just created, I obviously wasn't up to that part of the game yet. Also, it looked like I wasn't subject to the linear gameplay the Pokémon games usually forced. I made Rival Boy cry, and I bet that wasn't part of the gameboy game. Also, I hadn't been forced to walk up and greet the Professor when I wandered into his lab. I remembered the old games made you do that, once upon a time. So I had free will. Suck it, philosophers back in Reality. I figured that one out in just one morning.


	3. I, Robot

Chapter Three: I, Robot

**Chapter Three: I, Robot.**

Okay, free will, in a gameboy game, a later version than Yellow, not quite sure which one.

"God help me" I mumbled aloud. "What next?"

**Well, I'm not quite God, but I can help you.**

My second clichéd movement today, I spun around, looking for the source of that voice. Neither of the townspeople looked away from their walking. Step. Pause. Step, step. Pause.

**They're not going to help you.**

"What the hell?" I said aloud. Well, it wasn't like the townsfolk were going to notice or anything, and Rocker Kid was still weeping too loudly to notice anyone else. "Where is that voice coming from?" and why did it sound so familiar?

**From the start menu, kid.**

"Start menu? Oh," I understood. "Right. It's a gameboy game."

**Glad you figured that one out for yourself. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm the help button.**

Suddenly the voice clicked in my head. "No you're not. You're Tommy Lee Jones. His voice, at least."

**No, I'm not.**

"Are too. You sound just like him."

**Am not.**

"Are too."

**Am not.**

"Are too."

**Am not.**

"Hey, is Will Smith as hot in person as he is on screen?"

**No.**

I heaved a sigh of disappointment.

**Hotter.**

"Sweet," I whispered. It sounded like my nameless rival had stopped crying. I decided I probably should keep my voice down. "So, Tommy Lee, how can you help me?"

**I can tell you how you got here, and how you can leave.**

"That would be nice," I invited.

**Alright kid-**

"Mercedes." Silly as it was, I liked my name. Better than Agatha or something.

**I knew that. Alright Mercedes, here's the deal. Once upon a time a few bored Nintendo programmers started playing with some gameboys. They wanted to make them interactive, and they succeeded, a little too well.**

"Hence me being here."

**Exactly. The systems literally sucked the player into the game. Of course, the programmers got fired for tampering with company property, and only a handful of the "improved" gameboys were mistaken for normal ones and actually sold.**

"How would you know if your own programmers were fired?"

**This gameboy is very, very interactive. The weather in Reality is 82 degrees Fahrenheit, it's a Tuesday morning, and someone needs to do their laundry.**

"That would be me." I intended to do it that morning but hey. Plans changed. "So how did I get here? I mean, really get here? I don't even remember playing gameboy, let alone being sucked into one _Poltergeist_-style. Hell, I can't remember what I did last night."

**The **_**Poltergeist **_**analogy isn't far from accurate. And the effects are a little traumatizing. The last one to get sucked in here blacked out her immediate memory, too.**

"Last one? Other people are in here with me?"

**Yes. One other. She's been in here for two weeks.**

"Wow. How far in is she?"

**Not very. She got a little…sidetracked. But to answer your original question, you bought this gameboy yesterday morning at a garage sale, on your way to camp. The family of the first girl actually saw her get transported into here, and reacted…strongly. They were selling most of their possessions and becoming Amish. **

"They didn't even get rid of the gameboy their daughter got eaten by?"

**Waste not, want not.**

"Easy for you to say."

**Nevertheless, you couldn't believe they were selling a gameboy and a Pokémon game for just five dollars and bought it. Last night at camp you couldn't sleep, so you started playing and viola. Here you are. I wonder how your camp friends and counselors will react to your disappearance?**

"You can wonder?"

**I can calculate the probability of any number of millions of human reactions to a given situation and decide the most likely response. It's basically the same thing.**

"Actually, it's likely no one will notice. I'm going to band camp. Band geeks are the biggest sexual deviants in the history of teenagerdom. They'll just assume I went off with a couple of tuba players to have few lewd affairs. As long as I'm back by the end of the three weeks, no one's going to notice one missing harpsichord player."

**Harpsichord. That's unusual.**

"So are sentient gameboy help menus."

**Point taken. Any other questions I can help you with?**

"Which version, exactly, am I playing in, and how do I get out?"

**Pokemon crystal version. Essentially the yellow version to pokémon versions silver and gold. They came after red, blue and yellow. You're not too far removed from the originals you played.**

That was good to know. "And how do I get out?"

**Simple. Beat the game.**

Wonderful. I had to beat a game operating in real time in under three weeks, or someone who cared would notice me missing and freak out. I didn't want to deal with the "Where have you been young lady?" hassle when- if?- I got back.

"So I basically I'm Dorothy, and this isn't Kansas."

**Correct. **

"Okay Tommy Lee Glinda, you've been a big help. I'm gonna go try and get to Oz now. How can I contact you if I need, well, help?"

Silence. I stupidly looked up to the artificially perfect blue sky. Where did Tommy Lee Jones' voice go?

"Help?" I whispered.

**That's how. Saying 'help' both activates and de-activates me. But don't leave me on all the time. A program needs his beauty sleep mode.**

"Gotcha," I was beginning to like this situation. It could be fun, right? Dangerous if something happened to the gameboy, maybe a waste of band camp fees, and it could potentially cause irrevocable harm to my relationships with people in Reality if it went on too long; but then there was the adventure. How many people got this chance? Two I knew of, myself included. It could be fun to have a literal vacation from Reality. Maybe I would be really good at this game. And the possibilities! I'd always secretly wanted to sully the virtue of an E-rated game. Yeah. It would be an adventure. A real life virtual adventure. And it wasn't like I had a choice. Time to be the Pokémon champion.

Okay, that sounded a little gay. Still, it was that time. "Thanks TLJ. I'll call you if I need you."

**That's what I'm here for.**

"Help." Silence again. Well, silence besides the creepy, shitty soundtrack playing in the background. That could get annoying. My energized mood droned out any irritation, however, and I walked into Elm's lab humming bits of the theme song I remembered from the TV show. This was going to be fun.


	4. Pete Townshend Had A Point

Chapter Four: Pete Townshend Had a Point

**Chapter Four: Pete Townshend Had a Point.**

"To catch them is my real test, to hm-hmm is my caaause…" I sang, ambling back into Professor Elm's lab-office-thing. As I walked past the skinny intern guy I noticed him staring at my chest. Creepy and flattering, but it proved something I'd forgotten to ask Tommy Lee Help Button. The game system was interactive, so I could influence the characters and their behaviors. That explained the pervy intern and the weepy rocker rival kid. Armed with new information, I ignored the ogling intern and greeted Elm.

"What's up, doc?" Okay, I admit, that was terrible. But Elm didn't catch on.

"Mercedes! I've been meaning to talk with you all morning! How are you?" he beamed.

"Fantastic!" I smiled back. Maybe it was an overstatement, but everything felt too surreal to be taken seriously anyway.

"Excellent! Now, I need you to do an errand for me, and I'm going to give you one of these three pokémon in order to help you out on your miss-AUGH!"

I turned and let out a squeaky yelp myself. Stupid female vocal chords. I sounded like a chipmunk on helium. My unnamed crybaby rival busted through the window he was leering at before. Oh. Now it all made sense. Ha, ha.

"WHO AM I?!" Red, raging and emo ran over to the table with the three pokéballs on it and flipped it over. Geez, what a baby. Real teenagers go through identity crisis every day. What made this virtual one so special that it needed to be so theatrical?

It was only when he attempted to pick up the table and set his eyes for the professor I decided to react productively. Virtual or not, I didn't want to see a guy get his head bashed in with a mahogany table. At least not so early in the morning. I rushed over to one of the pokéballs that rolled to a corner made by a bookshelf and the wall on the right.

"Oh, so you want Chikorita, the leaf pokémon?" asked Elm in a slightly robotic voice from his fetal position on the floor. My rival dropped the table he was about to bludgeon the professor with and turned on me.

"Leaf pokémon?" I thought. In a sudden burst of memory I recalled how in red version, the grass guy Bulbasaur was easiest to beat the game with.

"Yes!" I shouted a little too loudly to the professor as I backed up from my rival's advance.

"Excellent!" he replied cheerily, still in his spot on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around his legs, head between his knees. His mood was unflappable.

"WHO. AM. I?!" Bellowed my unhappily unnamed rival, progressing towards me like Frankenstein's monster. Okay, quick thinking time. "Do I attack him with a pokémon," I deliberated, "Or just give him what he wants?" After all, it was my responsibility as the game's main character. In the old games I always went with the name "Gary" for my rival, like the TV show. This time I went with something more creative.

My infuriated rival backed me into the corner where I obtained my first pokémon before I made my decision.

"FLAVIUS!" I cried.


	5. What Are The Odds?

Chapter Five: What are the odds

**Chapter Five: What are the odds?**

Two things I was not expecting occurred the instant I pronounced the last syllable of my rival's new name. First, he fell to his knees (the second time today, the drama queen), wrapped his arms around my ankles while I nearly lost my balance, and started weeping all over my pant leg. Second, the skinny intern from earlier peeked his head around the bookshelf.

"Yes," He answered, "Who called me?" Apparently his name was Flavius, too. Huh.

"Flavius- not you, son, you go on crying on Mercedes' jeans, that's a good lad- Flavius, would you help me put the table back here? Thanks." Professor Elm helped Flavius The Pervy Intern move the mahogany table/ weapon of mass destruction back into place, and then began chattering away to him about testing cosmetics on jinxes. I wracked my memory to put a face to the pokémon. Oh, right. The hooker-looking ones. Adorable. Speaking of which…

"Uh, Flave? Flavius? Could you get off my leg now, please?" I was inclined to be polite to the boy. He'd experienced a more emotional morning than even I had, mostly because of me.

"I-it's just I, I w-w-was gon-na st-steal from h-him, and th-then I didn't, d-didn't know m-my own n-n-n-name, and I, I'm just so happy you could h-help me…" he broke into sobs again. I hoped he wasn't using my pants as a handkerchief. I knew he was. Bastard.

I sighed. "It's gonna be okay Flavius. Really, it is. You have an identity now, come on, up you go, that's right, off my new jeans, there's a good boy." He stood up and embraced me, lifting my feet a few inches off the ground. I knew he was going to break my neck today, I just knew it! Crazy PMS-ing virtual rockstar table-wielding ninja bastard!

He placed me down again and looked into my eyes. My round, non-quadrilateral eyes. Involuntarily I smiled. He really was prettier than me, even more so now that he was smiling. I tried to wipe the hormonal grin off of my face and failed. Saving myself, I bent over and picked up one of the other pokéballs that fell in the chaos of the almost-wrestling match.

"Here," I offered, handing it to him, "You don't have to steal it. Right, Elmsy?"

"Sure, indubitably, certainly, and all that." He fell back into his hurried speech about the negative effects eyeliner had on cataracts in some species of pokémon. "He won't miss it," I assured Flavius.

"Thanks. A lot. For everything." Normal human feelings seemed to seep back into his emotionally overwrought system; he blushed a little and ran his hair through his perfectly tousled tresses. "Uh. Sorry about the death stare before. And the death match just now. And all the crying." He was looking intently at his sneakers now. I hadn't noticed before, but was Flavius shy? Great. An antisocial lunatic. Just the rival I needed.

"No problem. By the by, why were you going to steal a pokémon in here anyway? Couldn't you just have punched a pikachu in the face and caught it or something?" I'd always wondered about that on the show. You could probably kick a caterpie around once or twice and knock it right out, no need for the middleman pokémon battling it out.

Flavius (I was starting to dread living with the guilt of giving him that name, though he didn't seem to mind it) looked up from his shoes and stared at me quizzically, as if I was the weird one of the two of us. "I guess I just…felt like I needed to steal, you know? Like I didn't have any other options. Almost an imperative instinct, like breathing or something." That would be the game programming, I figured. Flavius stared at the poke ball in his hand and continued, "I never figured someone'd actually care and just give me one." He looked up and smiled again. "Thanks."

I had the strange feeling that I just irrevocably messed up Flavius' "imperatives" by giving him that pokémon. He wasn't going to be my rival after all. He was going to be my friend. It was a strange concept to wrap my head around, a friend that wasn't really, well, real. He was as artificial as pac-man or Mario. But so was I, at the moment. My desire to have a companion that wasn't the disembodied voice of an actor combined with the guilt that I'd caused this character three meltdowns in one morning and utterly fucked up what was to be his goal in 'life' and created a monster called Compassion. What a bastard.

It didn't hurt that he was kind of pretty, either.

"Okay Flave," I shrugged, "these guys seem kind of busy, and I'm guessing you've already overstayed your welcome."

"I was welcome?" he asked. I wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or genuinely surprised.

"Sure!' Responding cheerily seemed to work on these pokémon characters. "But we should get going, you know. The Adventure Begins."

That struck a chord. "All right!" Did he just skip? I think he skipped. Was that a heel click? "Let's GO!" He then looked around the room, making sure no one saw him react. More self-conscious than shy, I decided. Maybe an ego issue. And then there was the "What is the meaning of life?" issue he seemed to care so much about. This might be more difficult than I expected.

"Oh Christ." I muttered.

"Who?" Flavius asked. Again, sarcastic or simply ignorant, I wasn't certain.

"No one." I couldn't help but smile. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard. Who knew? "Let's just get going." I turned and began strolling towards the front door. " I wanna be the very best, hm-hmm-hm ever was…"


	6. Hitchcock Got It Right

Chapter Six: Hitchcock Got It Right

The 6th installment, with more to come. Be nice and review .

**Chapter Six: Hitchcock Got It Right**

Captain Mercedes and her sidekick Scene Kid! No, that wouldn't work. The Amazing Mercedes and Carrot Top the Boy Wonder! Nope again. Benz/Ova! I chuckled aloud at the last one. Flavius looked over at me.

"Did I do something funny?" he asked.

Stifling my giggle, I tried to look somber. "No. Why?" No need for him to think I was crazy just yet. I already talked to a voice no one else could hear…

That thought intensified a flood of guilt I'd been trying to put down since we left Elm's lab. Haha, nightmare on Elm's street…no, not even bad puns could shove down the unpleasant (virtual) reality of the situation. At some point I would have to explain to Flavius that this was all a game to me, that I had a help button ready at all times, that when I put the pokéball that contained my Chikorita on my belt, a little interface told me her HP, level and total experience points, and nobody noticed that, either. I absolutely did not want to bring on yet another existential crisis by telling Flavius "Hey! None of this is real! Ha, ha. Now help me beat this game-your reality, by the by- so I can peace the fuck out." I cringed at the images in my head. That would not be a pleasant conversation, and I had every intention on avoiding it for as long as possible, or until the guilt gave me an ulcer. Did pokémon centers work on people, too?

I was so distracted by my own thoughts that I let out and audible yelp when a hand on my collar literally pulled me back to the present.

"The fucking fuck, Flavius?" I cried, startled.

My reaction startled him, too. "I-I'm sorry," he began, "but that's tall grass, and you looked so distracted, andIdidn'twantapokémontojumpouteatyourfaceI'mreallysorrypleasedon'tyellatmeagainplease."

Oh. He'd noticed my preoccupied state. Better work on that. My anger faded as quickly as it came. "No, it's okay, you just surprised me. Now what was that about me getting my face eaten?"

Flavius blushed slightly at the mention of his own hyperbole. "Well, pokémon hide out in tall grass." he indicated at the brush I was about to step into and the more manicured, richer grass we were standing in. "And you didn't look like you were paying attention. And I didn't want one to, you know-"

"Eat my face?" I finished, amused.

"Uh, yeah." He turned his back on me, suddenly very interested in a shrubbery. I took the awkward lapse in conversation to examine my surroundings more closely. The sky was still baby blue, the sun may as well have had a smiley face on it, and the temperature was that of a comfortable early summer afternoon. Flave was right, the grass in front of me was higher than it was in town or where I stood, and a few shades of green lighter. If it all wasn't so cheery and inviting, the perfect, still day would've been creepy. Creepy as hell. Creepy as Flavius The Pervy Intern, even.

Wrapped up in my simile, it took me a minute to realize that frantic screaming muffled by whooshing sounds and ferocious chirping (not an oxymoron, it turns out) was a little unusual. I turned, expecting to see Flavius where he had been crouching before, and instead saw a mass of birds assaulting a flailing, screaming thing that could only be Flavius. My vision of him was almost completely obscured, both by the birds and the status bars that were seemingly attached to each of them by an invisible force. The little bars informed me that Flavius was up to his neck in pidgies, which I vaguely remembered being annoyingly common in red version. I also saw their hit points and levels (Two, three, two, four, three, three…I could barely read them before they flew up and dove in for another go at Flavius' jugular), exactly like I could in previous pokémon games I wasn't living in.

"Damn," I muttered to myself, "looks like _The Birds _in anime form." Actually, it kind of was _The Birds _in anime form. Hurriedly I reached to my belt and threw my pokéball at the flock of Death Birds.

"Go, Chik-uh, Chikaaah…" Why did they make these things' names so damn long?! Oh well. "Go, Chicky!"

A red beam shot out from the multi-colored ball I held in my hand, and my Chikorita (THAT was the name! Huh. I realized I liked 'Chicky' better) appeared on the grass in front of me. She let out an excited bleat and looked over at me, as if I had a plan. Shit, summoning her WAS my plan!

"Go get 'em!" I instructed her. Well, it was worth a shot. Without further hesitation, Chicky launched herself at the Flock of Seagulls. I mean pidgies. Her plan wasn't much more complicated than my own; again and again, she tackled a bird, it lost a few HP, would unhappily squawk at her or maybe go in for a peck, and then turned on Flavius again. And she was doing some damage, too, but I soon realized she couldn't take them all out on her own, and Flavius was too busy protecting himself to summon his pokémon. I understood then I had to do what I was kidding about earlier that morning. I broke a branch off of a nearby tree and started playing baseball with the pidgies' heads. Strike, strike, base hit, strike, double, single, move Chicky- home run! Chicky and I quickly scattered the birds (well, the ones that were still conscious enough to fly, anyway). Flavius was examining the damage done to his jacket and fixing his hair, which somehow looked better than it did before the bird attack.

"So, I guess I should just tattoo the words 'Thank You' on the palm of my hand and show it to you every time you save my ass, huh?" he suggested when he was done fixing his appearance.

"Nah. On your knuckles. That'd be hot." I responded. All the levity in the atmosphere was quickly drained when I noticed Chicky (level eight coming out of the brawl) was within an inch of her life, staggering around like a drunken horse. Or a potted plant with four legs and terrible balance.

"Shit, Flavius! She only has three HP left! How do we fix her?"

"Calm down, calm down, I've got a potion right here." He produced a windex-style bottle from the lining of his jacket and sprayed Chicky with it. Her hit points instantly shot almost all the way back up. I felt relieved. Wait. Relieved? This was a game, she was a digital plant. Nothing to be taken so seriously. Right?

"Thanks, Flave. For that I think we're even." I said, returning Chicky to her pokéball.

"Not even close." His attention was diverted to a pidgey feebly pecking at his sneaker. It had only one HP left, but Flavius could tell it was beat up even without the aid of magical video-game 6th senses like I had. He took a pokéball out of his jacket and tossed onto the offending pidgey. It didn't even put up a fight, bringing Flavius' pokémon count up to two.

"Uh, Flavius? Where did you get that pokéball, and that potion?" I asked, realizing I had none of those things.

He blushed. Again. "I may have stolen them from a Poké Mart earlier this morning?" he offered, cringing. Apparently he expected me to yell at him for it.

"Genetic imperatives again?" I asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, actually," he said, looking hopeful. Maybe I wouldn't eat his face off. "Like before."

"I figured. Don't be ashamed or anything. I bet you couldn't help it."

"Not really." He looked ecstatic that I understood him. More than he realized, I thought. "Now, can you tell me something?"

"Sure," I said, a little anxiously. What could he want to know?

"How did you know your Chikorita only had three HP left?"

Shit.


	7. Not Quite Tron, But Close

After I finished this chapter, I realized the ending sounded a little final

After I finished this chapter, I realized the ending sounded a little final. False alarm folks, there's many more chapters a-comin', with even more hijinx. Review and read on.

**Chapter Seven: Not Quite Tron, But Close.**

Fecal matter fecal matter fecal matter fecal matter! There goes the whole "Let's not tell Flavius until I have too" thing. I reviewed my options.

1. Pretend I didn't hear the question and continue on. No, Flavius would keep asking me, and he was insecure enough already without me ignoring him and messing with his head. Plus, I wanted to keep him around as a friend.

2. Kill him-dead people don't ask questions. I immediately threw that idea out. He was too pretty.

3. Tell the truth. Ugh.

Was honesty the best policy in this case? I suspected Flavius might implode from the sheer Locke-esque thinking that accompanied such a realization, but maybe I could drag his passed out body along the way until he woke up. Then I could tell him it was all a dream. The seconds ticked by in silence as I made my decision.

"Okay, Flave-here's the deal. Promise to listen without freaking out for as long as you can, alright?" He nodded gravely and I continued, "This is all- well. Okay. To me, this is all a game. A gameboy game, to be specific. Crystal version. But that doesn't matter. See, I was sort of completely sucked into this from my Reality, so this is all a game to me, right? I can see the stats on pokémon like their health and level and I even have a help button that sounds like Tommy Lee Jones- help," I noted, so Tommy Lee wouldn't start up. I moved on. "And once I- well, we, if you're still with me after this- beat the game, I can go back to my Reality. Not to say that this isn't a reality, but it's more real there than it is here and I really don't want you to faint or implode or anything oh man I'm sorry."

I expected explosions. I expected crying. I expected shouting and hurt and disbelief. What I didn't expect was

"Okay." Flavius shrugged. "That's cool."

"You're acting awful cool for a guy with bird shit on his jacket." Harsh, I know. But his even-headed reaction was so unexpected it pissed me off a little.

Flavius brusquely removed his coat, sat down, and began scratching the stains out of it with my pidgey-beating stick. "Really. I'm alright. No more breakdowns today. I always wondered about alternate realities. Sometimes I even wondered if I was living in some elaborate gameboy game- we have gameboys here, you know," he added, glancing up at me before re-focusing on his stain removal. "I guess now my questions are answered. One of them, at least."

"Wha…but, you-I wouldn't even be so…" I trailed off, beyond words at this point.

"How do you know you're reality isn't a gameboy game to some other person?" Not an accusation, but a suggestion. Something for me to mull over in my spare time. Goddamn hippie. No. This was what I wanted, right? I felt another wave of relief. Not only was my guilt washed away like swim trunks to sea, but Flavius was still with me. And that mattered. Not as much as getting back to Reality did, but it mattered.

We really were friends. I meet people in the strangest places, I realized. I sat down next to Flavius, at ease again.

"Thanks for not wigging out." I stared at the too-perfect sky.

"No problem. Thanks for being honest with me. Well, honest or crazy. Either way…" He trailed off. I looked over at him.

"I'm stuck with you, aren't I?" I finished for him.

"Basically," he admitted. He smiled wryly. "You're pretty presumptuous for a crazy chick. What if I meant "either way I'm a cannibal and am going to have you for brunch"?"

"Then that would make you the one eating faces, not me" I fired back, enjoying our exchange.

"True. So I'm a literal cannibal, and you're a metaphorical one. A metaphorical cannibal with bird shit on her shoe," he added, indicating to my right sneaker.

I shrugged, not to be out done in the easygoing department by the king of the existential crisis. "Forget the show. Let's go…" I realized I had no clue what it was we were supposed to do next.

"Oh, yeah. You were singing on your way out the door, so Elm told me what to do. He wants us to ask this guy Mr. Pokémon what he wants. Apparently he's been e-mailing Elm about some "amazing discovery". Mewtwo's face in an oatmeal raisin cookie or something like that. His place is just past the next town."

"Mr. Pokémon?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, I know. You shoulda given him a name, too. Marcus Aurelius maybe." There was that wry smile again. I could tell I was going to grow attached to that.

"I was thinking Cassius, or maybe Caesar, actually."

We just started walking again before Flavius stopped me. "Is Crystal Version a fun game?" he looked up from his sneakers just long enough to ask me.

I grinned. "If you play it right."

We kept walking.


	8. An Ode To Jersey

I can't find enough time to get all my ideas down fast enough

I can't find enough time to get all my ideas down fast enough. So all five of my readers know what's ahead: Gang fights, Team Rocket under new management, and the First and a Half Coming. Thanks for all of the great reviews, and keep them coming! I do this so we all can enjoy it, but mostly you guys.

**Chapter Eight: An Ode To Jersey. **

The rest of our way to Cherrygrove was as uneventful as being warped into a videogame and hiking can possibly be. I christened the stain-removal-and-beating stick Edward; Edward and I took turns with Chicky in fending off attacking pokémon (a satisfactorily low level of pidgies, I noticed). By the time we reached Cherrygrove, Chicky was level ten and I had a Hall Of Fame batting average. Flavius opted to run a few errands- take our pokémon to the center and heal them, pick up a few things (legally this time) at the market, et cetera.

This respite- really the first I had all morning- gave me time to think, and to observe. I didn't bother with any of the townspeople as I walked towards the edge of the land, to the waterfront. I stared down at my reflection in the perfect blue ocean. It was practically a mirror image of myself, scarcely interrupted by discoloration or ripples in the water. I watched the waves benignly splash onto the sand and pull back again, rhythmically, methodically. Splash, back, splash splash, back…suddenly I realized the waves operated on a ¾ time signature. That was it.

A wave of homesickness crashed directly into the pit of my stomach. I hated the bright blue water, the immaculate skyline, the ideal weather. Glaring at the shore now, I found myself longing for the muddy olive colored rivers back home, for the smoggy mornings and toxic evenings, for hazy afternoons and unbreathable air. Where were the grubby panhandlers, the sidewalk lunatics, the vulgar cab drivers screaming obscenities at groups of loitering drug dealers? Certainly there was danger here, but not the familiar, comforting kind from home. I missed the sense of hostility, the menace of muggers and careless policemen and acidic rain falling on the heads of naive schoolchildren. That was home for me! Not here, where what were once the only non-threatening things- chirping birds and bugs humming along with their erratic harmonies- were the enemy, the attackers, the cause for alarm. This place was total sensory depletion. Everything smelled sterile- the biggest affront to my sense of smell was the faint odor of vanilla in the forest earlier. Visually it was all so pristine it made me a little uncomfortable. On my tongue was the faint taste of white bread. Touch and sound were the least affected- a little dulled perhaps, less harsh than Reality, but at least snarling purple rats reminded me of the city. The rest of this world was upside-down, and it was deeply unsettling.

"Mercedes, hey! I got all the potions, and Chicky's all set, and I was wondering if you wanted to-"

Feces, Flavius! Rapidly recalling his perceptiveness the last time I'd been troubled by my thoughts, I tried to look occupied. I fixed the way my bangs fell across my forehead and adjusted my clothes. Flavius was an inch away from me when I was fixing my shirt. And then it happened: I accidentally snapped my bra strap. _This is the kind of shit they should teach us to deal with in school, _I thought ferociously, _not the use of imagery in post-modernist poetry!_

The lights dimmed and the music swelled when the Best Actor award was presented to Flavius for his performance in Ignoring the Snap Heard 'Round The World. He deliberately looked at my face and continued his sentence nearly without missing a beat-

"to see if there's a way to Mr. P's house without all the tall grass and the pokémon attacks. It'll just slow us down."

He took a second to make eye contact with me. Grateful as I was for his intentional avoidance of a Class 5 awkward situation (in tornado form enough to decimate an entire Midwestern state) , I couldn't help but wonder if Flavius was ever going to get any better at speaking to the ladies, specifically me. A female Don Juan I was not, but I wasn't a nun either. I could talk to guys and flirt with the occasional saxophone player (though I blame my stunted education in the rest of the art of seduction on eight years of harpsichord). And though I still wasn't clear on my feelings or plans for furthering my relationship with Flavius (video game guy weird?), I was okay with the uncertainty. For now. If only he wasn't so awkward, and awkward about not being awkward!

"Yeah, but that's probably unavoidable." I noted, looking through the tree line at the road up ahead. I pivoted back on my heels and stared straight at him for the first time since he returned from his errands.

"What's with the Long John Silver look?" I asked.

"Oh, her?" Flavius asked, indicating to the pidgey perched on his left shoulder. "She didn't seem to like the pokéball very much, and it saves me some time from calling her anyway." He patted the bird on its head, and it cooed. Then it eyed me and growled, MGM lion style. Involuntarily I jumped back a little, then cringed at my own silliness. Edward The Punisher Of Vermin And Stains was in my hands. I purposefully eyed the stick and looked into the pidgey's eyes. It gave out a little squawk and ruffled its feathers a bit. I smiled maniacally. No one messes with Edward the Avenger.

Flavius and I began walking to Mr. Pokémon's house, exchanging information from our respective worlds. He explained poké market items, I explained cable television. I learned about type advantages, he learned about Chinese takeout and the social nuances of bowling alley etiquette. I learned about evolution, he learned about the internet. Well, what parts of the internet I could explain, anyway. Our conversation was easy; it flowed naturally, though still marred with awkward pauses and blushing more often than I'd have liked. Flavius' pidgey took up most of the wild pokémon battle work so Chicky and Edward the Mighty could take a break. We could see the clearing where Mr. Pokémon's house stood when I abruptly came to a stop.

"Hey Flavius. What was the pokémon I gave you, anyway?" I realized he hadn't summoned it at all since I'd given it to him that morning.

Flavius looked startled. "I don't know, actually," he stated, equally as surprised as I was that he'd forgotten to check. "I mean, it's not like I don't appreciate it more than any gesture ever shown to me in the course of my entire existence, it's just we've been so busy this morning, and-"

"Calm down. It's alright. Let's just see what it is, okay my hipster pirate amigo?"

"Aye aye, cap'n." He removed a pokéball from his white leather belt and threw it on the ground before us.

"Slugma!"


	9. Jack Lemmon He May Be

First attempt at shipping ever in this one

First attempt at shipping ever in this one. No worries, it won't become a regular thing…probably. Yeah, no. I have a lot more ideas for the next few chapters, so look for those coming soon. Keep reviewing, I appreciate them all.

**Chapter Nine: Jack Lemmon He May Be.**

A soft thumping sound reverberated through the trees as Flavius' jaw hit the ground. I didn't check to see if he was okay; I couldn't take my eyes off the thing.

In a strange kind of way, it was cute. At least it looked happy to be there, oozing around in a circle, smiling like it had just received the best birthday gift ever. It sort of reminded me of a dog. A dog that you couldn't pet because it was on fire. I had a sneaking suspicion that slugma was not the traditional starter fire pokémon. As if it could read my thoughts (could it? Ugh, I never had to worry about a bulldog doing that in Reality), the slugma looked from Flavius to me and attempted a back flip. This endeavor was followed by an Epic Fail. The slugma landed on its head, fell to its side, obliviously wriggled its way back upright, and started chasing its own tail again. Even Flavius' pidgey looked disgusted. Then again, she always looked like that.

"That's…not a…good thing." Flavius finished, watching his slugma attempt yet another back flip and purchase another ticket on the FailBoat.

"Actually, maybe not…" I began, unsure if I wanted to risk my reputation as a non-moron on defending the silly creature, who was now rolling around and scorching the grass beneath it. "It's a fire pokémon, right? So it'll kick ass at any grass, bug, ice or steel trainers. And don't a few gym leaders use pokémon like those?" I smiled weakly under Flavius' unreadable expression.

Finally, Flavius sighed and smiled warmly right back at me. "You're right. Just because he's not a cyndaquil, doesn't mean he can't be a good addition to our team. In fact, he probably will be very us-" Flavius stopped short as slugma tried to climb a small tree, got halfway up before he burnt it down, and fell on its back, still beaming. Pidgey looked positively embarrassed, and hid her head in her wing.

Flavius just sighed and smiled again, though noticeably less than he was a minute ago. "We'll just have to train it a lot." He paused in thought for a second. "A lot a lot. Yeah…lots."

I laughed. "Yeah, he is acting like he's been marinating in FailSauce, isn't he?"

Since slugma's grand entrance, we'd walked almost the rest of the way to Mr. Pokémon's house. We stopped just outside his front door so Flavius could return slugma to his pokéball. The mental image of slugma resting on Flavius' other shoulder was so funny I had to bite my lip so keep from seemingly laughing at nothing. Again. And looking crazy. Again.

Indicating 'after you' with his arms, Flavius opened the door and I stolled into Mr. Polémon's place.

The good news was, the shitty song that was playing the entire time I was in the woods was gone. The bad news was something far more upbeat, cheery and exponentially more irritating began. I cursed the fact that only I could hear it. My actions would seem much more normal if everybody cringed when they changed settings.

The first aspect of Mr. Pokémon's house I noticed was the extreme disparity between the two halves of his space. The right side was neat as a pin. Neat as a brand new, sterilized, germ-repellant pin. The desk was placed exactly perpendicular to the wall- I doubted you could make the angle more exact with a protractor. All of the books, notebooks and writing utensils laid straight in the desk next to the perfectly squared computer and keyboard and were labeled 'P.G.O.'. Even the electronic equipment I didn't recognize was neatly placed and shining clean.

I heard Flavius shut the door behind him and felt him standing directly behind me. Trying not to be distracted by the warmth and scent of his breath (it was one of the few smells that wasn't sterile or vanilla; his breath smelled appropriately and wonderfully refreshingly minty), I took in the left side of the workspace.

Utter chaos. Books and papers lined the floor, pencils were stuck in the ceiling above, and nothing seemed to be in its proper place. At once I felt a little more relaxed. I loved it when there was entropy in this game; it made everything seem less controlled and surreal. There were no books on the bookshelves. Instead there were photographs, half-used candles, strange sculptures and a mass of sticky notes with strange phrases like "Move couch/ peanut butter thurs." and "Flypaper Babies: Sell All" and one that read "Alphabet compromised. Where is leotard? Applesauce.". On one of he shelves there even rested a host of pokémon stuffed animals that more closely resembled voodoo dolls than beanie babies. I studied the photographs. Some were in frames, other simply laying where they landed, going with the heaving, jerking flow the left side of the room seemed to operate by. In each photograph there was a man in an old tweed suit and crushed derby hat, but the situations this man was in drastically changed from one photo to the next: Sitting on a chair being hoisted up by a crowd of three large, flushed men and a Machop, sticking his head in a Gyrados' mouth and beaming at the camera, wearing nothing but his hat and a pair of shorts whilst dancing the can-can with a line of jinxes…Flavius interrupted my observations.

"Dull guy," he commented, nodding to the voodoo dolls and smiling wryly. Just then a figure emerged from a pile of papers and maps in the corner of the room.

"Whozzere?!" Cried the man, launching himself from the pile. I recognized him as the derby-hatted man of the Left Side Of The Room. Wildly adjusting his hat on his disorderly tangle of auburn hair, he stared at me, looking perplexed. His mood suddenly changed.

"Why hello there! How's it going. Siddown, have something to, uh, play with," he suggested, hastily shoving a voodoo doll of a butterfree into Flavius' arms. "So," he said, settling down on the corner of his desk, obstructing our view of the pile of papers and maps that he'd just sprung from, "What can I do you for?"

Flavius began talking. "We're here on Professor Elm's request. See, he wanted us to…" I stopped focusing on Flavius' words and looked around who I assumed was Mr. Pokémon so I could get a better look at the papers in the corner. Sure enough, Mr. P's actions had been deliberate. A rather flushed looking figure stood up from the pile, adjusting his immaculate white lab coat and brushing off his pants. In a moment of shock, I recognized the figure as Professor Oak, Wizard of Oz of the pokémon TV shows and early games. What was he doing in that pile, and why was he zipping up his-

Mr. Pokémon leaned over on the desk, blocking off most of my view of Oak. He stared right at me, his gaze never swaying from my eyes, though I knew in his mind he was watching the professor behind him. "So!" he almost shouted cheerily, "Old Elmsy wants to know what I've been 'ranting' about these days!" He let out a self-deprecating

Laugh that was more sincere than I'd have expected. Mr. Pokémon hopped off his desk edge, dove his arms into a pile of playing cards and broken pieces of electronics, and emerged with a filing cabinet. Pulling it upright, he threw the middle drawer onto the floor (or, rather, a scattered deck of playing cards that carpeted that area of the floor). I noted he was very careful not to get anything on the right side of the room, where Oak was now sitting at his desk, looking very intently at his computer screen. Which was off. So was this whole place, I decided.

Mr. Pokémon threw open the top drawer of the filing cabinet, humming a tune I recognized from 'Carmen'. Flavius jumped a little at the noise of the second filing cabinet hitting the tiled floor and grabbed my hand for a split second, before hastily letting it go. I tried not to notice, but I heard his pidgey give a disapproving coo and I had to smile a little.

The second drawer of the cabinet was filled with gummy bears. Glancing at it, Mr. Pokémon suddenly lunged at the drawer like a jaguar to a gazelle, and shoved his hand violently into the gummy bears. A minute later his arm emerged victoriously with a pokéball in his hand. Oak looked over, acting uninterested.

"This, my friends, is what I've been ranting about." Odd. He didn't seem as energetic as before. "The greatest discovery in the last five minutes, I give you…the PokéChicken!"

The red laser went off and from it emerged…a magmar. Essentially a scarlet duck with an unfortunate haircut. Not a pokéchicken, which at this point I highly doubted existed.

Flavius looked confused. "That's a magmar," he stated. "Incredibly rare around these parts, but not a pokéchicken. Whatever that is." He looked over to professor Oak, who's face was just as scarlet as magmar's. Suddenly, something clicked. "You _liar_." he accused Mr. Pokémon.

"No, no really. It's the pokéchicken! The chicken that came before the egg! Adam and Togepi, get it?" He offered, accompanied by unenthusiastic gesticulations.

"No." I said my fist words since we'd entered. "I don't. 'Cuz Flavius is right. You're a lair." Mr. P shot a quick look at Oak before looking back at me. "You're lying for him," I added, nodding my head in Oak's direction. The professor looked like he was about to cry, or pee, or something.

Mr. Pokémon threw up his arms in exasperation. "You see Geoffrey? I told you this wouldn't work!"

Professor Oak, Wizard of Information, Pokémon Aficionado, Lord Of Information, began to bawl. Why? Why all the men crying around me? Why?

Mr. Pokémon practically sprinted across the room, across the neatness divide, and took Professor oak in his arms, leaning against the desk and whispering in his ear.

"Shhh, Geoffrey, shh, it's okay, it's alright, come on now, shh…"

Flavius looked shocked, then a little embarrassed, then just shrugged and smiled. I was highly amused. Flavius' pidgey cooed disapproval again. Apparently she hated romance. I was just plain amused, but still wanted to know the situation.

Mr. Pokémon removed his head from between Oak's shoulder and neck to explain. "See, Geoff- uh, Professor Oak, that is- Is under a lot of stress recently, what with his regular research and now his radio show, and he didn't want to fall behind Professor Elm, so he thought maybe I could send him a red herring-"

"Duck." Flavius corrected.

"Duck-" Pokémon agreed, "So he'd be distracted and waste some time not making any amazing discoveries."

"That's a lame-ass plan." I noted.

"Sorry." Apologized Mr. Pokémon. Then he nudged Professor Oak.

"S-s-sorry." he sobbed, then blew his nose on Mr. P's sleeve. Pidgey squawked and ruffled her feathers noisily. Flavius looked at me again and shrugged. I looked at the digital clock mounted on Oak's wall. 10: 43 AM.

This was one long, long morning.


	10. Kind Of Like Cheating On The Sims

For the record, I love the Sims

For the record, I love the Sims. I hop this chapter fixes any plot holes you might have observed.

**Chapter Ten: Kind Of Like Cheating On The Sims.**

Mr. Pokémon was stroking Oak's hair, Oak had our reassurances that Professor Elm was too busy discussing cosmetics with Flavius the Pervy Intern to make any grand discoveries that would dethrone Oak as the Wizard Of Jhoto, and Flave and I each had a shiny new Pokédex to keep us quiet about the whole "pokéchicken" thing. I also figured it was so we didn't go skipping around town informing everyone that there was more than just science going down in Mr. Pokémon's place, but that was neither here nor there. They were actually pretty cute together, in a creepy old dude kind of way. To put the icing on the bribery cake, Mr. Pokémon even gave Flavius the offending magmar, who I immediately dubbed Daffy. Flavius never forgave me for that. He wanted to call him The Disco Duck. This argument continued in a semi-joking fashion on our way out of Mr. Pokémon's.

"Daffy is a classic cartoon character! I don't see how Disco Duck can be considered more socially relevant-"

"He's not! That-That's the joke, get it?"

"So some random music reference is funnier than Daffy fucking duck because of its obscurity? You're craz-umph!"

Craz-umph is not an adjective. It is the sound one makes when one is walking directly into a tree mid-mock argument. I stumbled backwards and then dropped into a fighting stance, ready for a battle. I had Edward The Righter Of Wrongs with me- the odds were in my favor.

"Mercedes, you shouldn't kill the tree like I know you're planning." Flavius suggested, putting a very calming hand on my shoulder.

I turned around, nearly knocking his nose off with Edward The Retaliator. "Aww. Why not?" I whined.

"Because that tree has berries. See?" He removed a bunch of indigo-blue grape-looking things. "They help pokémon in and out of battles. Like the potions and antidotes I was telling you about before, remember?"

"Lunch!" I exclaimed, removing another bunch from the tree as Flavius put his in his coat pocket.

**Stop.**

Oh, shit. Tommy Lee Jones. "Uh, Flavius? Yeah, my help-help- button is talking to me, so I'm gonna sound a little crazy for a minute, okay?"

"Sure thing." he shrugged. "You always kinda sound crazy, anyway."

"Nice." I directed towards him. "So TLJ, what's new?"

**Don't eat those berries.**

"Why, are they CrackApples or something? Ecstasy in a grape?"

**You're not far off base, actually.**

"You assume I'm going to be wrong a lot."

**Be that as it may-**

"So you admit it!"

I must say Flavius was doing a good job not looking to weirded out by the conversation until that point. Then he just looked perplexed.

**Berries aren't good for you. If you were an NPC, consuming just one would have the effect of several kilos of cocaine on your system.**

"But I'm not an NPC."

**Correct. Therefore, consuming anything in this game would have exceptionally negative effects on your system. Eating a berry would be similar to replacing all of your blood with heroin and then consuming New York City's entire supply of controlled substances.**

"Oh damn," I breathed, impressed by the danger. I dropped the berries on the ground immediately, afraid they might give me an instant acid trip or something. I remembered the only word of advice my grandma ever gave me: "Don't take the brown acid." Grandma was hella cool. "Why is that, though? Why would it mess me up so badly?"

**Because your body is in a suspended state. You are exactly the way you were the instant you were sucked into this reality, and you will not change until you are back in yours. You will not grow, fatigue, thirst or hunger. No depleting changes in your system will occur due to time. However, the game programmers did allow for changes due to the game environment. For example, if you cut yourself here, you'll bleed. Hormones, tears, injuries, memories, essentially any interactions with this game reality not caused by time in your Reality, are all in effect.**

I was glad Flavius couldn't hear the hormones bit, and therefore didn't understand why I momentarily glanced at him.

"Okay. Well, that explains a bit. So, no purple berries?"

**I don't recommend it. They'll fuck you up.**

I almost laughed at the bluntness (no pun intended) of his line.

"Thanks a ton-or a kilo- Agent K. Help," I finished, ending our conversation.

"What was that about?" Asked Flavius, looking up at the sky like I tended to do whilst interacting with my start menu.

"I don't age or get hungry here. Sick, right? I guess I have to move my birthday back a few days when I get home."

Flavius stared at his shoes and clenched his fists. "Yeah, ill," he halfheartedly agreed.

Slightly confused, I continued. "Oh, yeah. The berries would mess up my system, massively. Jim Morrison-style trips. Not something I want to try."

"Yeah. We should get going, you know. Get to the next town. There's a gym there."

"Uh, yeah. We should." Why was he being so cold all of the sudden? I replayed our recent interactions in my head. No berries, birthday, when I get ho-oh. I got it, sort of. He didn't want be using him just to beat the game. I didn't let myself consider the other, more personal implications I wished I didn't wish (DAMN THIS EVEN MESSING UP MY GRAMMAR AAARAGH) he felt. Fugging emotion, touchy-feely, hormone things. Why couldn't this game stopper those, too? I figured I'd pretend I hadn't noticed his mood swing.

"We should." I repeated. "You wanna call Elm and tell him we're not going back, and Mr. Pokémon was just ranting about some new…radio show? Or something like that. Whatever. He'll probably barely listen. And if that other Flavius asks, I was killed by a rabid polywhirl wearing toxic mascara." Flavius giggled a little. There we go, back to normal. Right?

"Gotcha." He began dialing his cell, and he talked to the professor as we looped around the thickest part of the tree line back around to the path that lead to the first town with a gym in it. Our pace was casual, and I intentionally didn't hurry anywhere. No need making Flave all insecure about our friendship, again. We were friends for all of three hours and already I felt I wronged him a half a dozen times. Still, he seemed so cool about it. The weird sci-fi stuff didn't seem to bother him much at all. I was grateful for that, and made a note to make it up to him at some point on our journey.

Just as Flavius hung up on Elm, a short boy in his early teens came charging at us. I almost smacked him with Edward The Fierce, but some instinct born from playing weeks' worth of red version reminded me accosting strangers was trainer etiquette, and this kid probably wanted to beat the shit out of my pokémon, not Flavius or myself.

"Let's battle!" was all the kid said. He looked even younger face to face, and wore shorts above the knee and a backwards baseball cap the same shade of orange as his shorts. He summoned a purple rat. Oh. Those friggin' things.

Flavius looked like he was about to speak and reach for his belt, but I cut him off.

"I got this one," I insisted, and summoned Chicky. Looking at the stats, the battle hardly seemed fair. Chicky was more than twice the level of the nine year old's ratta-thing, and the first thing the kid demanded it do was wag it's tail. Oh. Outstanding battle strategy. There's a winner if I ever saw one.

**The author would like to apologize for the extreme use of sarcasm throughout this entire story, especially in the last few lines. We apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you. Carry on.**

In a matter of three tackles, Chicky stomped my pubescent foe's vermin and won the battle. I didn't see where all of the excitement came from- yeah, the battle was pretty fun, but it hardly seemed fair, let alone challenging- so where was the sport? Then the kid broke out his wallet, and I remembered a crucial detail from red version. Monetary winnings from each battle.

"Sweet," I mumbled, stuffing the foreign bank notes into my backpack. At first I almost told the kid to keep his money. Instinct from Reality, when my math tutoring gig kept me more affluent than most of my friends. I wasn't used to accepting money from people, but then I remembered I was broke here, and I was probably going to need a hefty bank account to make my way through my pixilated predicament. Flavius saw the incredulous but excited look that must've been on my face and beamed back at me. He actually looked sort of proud. Of me? Weird.

**Chapter Ten Point Five: Charlie Watts Could Kick Ringo Starr's Ass Any Day.**

**The following is the perspective of a small, altogether attractive-looking bush on a conversation between two trainers late one Tuesday morning. One was in too-short-to-be-manly maroon shorts, the other was in a teal t-shirt and appeared to have an Emo Pirate as her sidekick. This is what the shrubbery, whose name is Hank, observed:**

Short Shorts begins the conversation. "Hey! I wanna battle you!"

The redhead girl says "Okay," and continues walking down the pathway, away from short shorts. The rocker pirate follows her, looking sort of wistful. The bird on his shoulder looks pissed, and very scary, like it might make a nest at any given point and weigh down a perfectly placed and manicured branch oh God-

Short shorts starts up again. "I said let's battle!"

"No," corrects the redhead, "Actually you said you wanted to battle, which I took to be an arbitrary fact you were throwing at me."

"The common connotation of that phrase indicates my intentions to commence battling you, typically."

"Clearly this isn't typical. Also, if I may quote the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want/ but if you try sometimes you'll get what you need."".

Short Shorts begins to appear flustered. "Yes, but this is a metaphorical need, on a more cerebral and indeed emotional level. As in the Beatles' 'All you need is love'."

"That's a completely different matter," argues the redhead, "Plus, one could potentially take that phrase literally and back it up with-"

"Oh, so I can't argue with Mick and the boys, but you're gonna dispute the fucking Beatles? Fuck that. Go, pidgey!"


End file.
